


Expect the Unexpected

by clownsxclowns



Category: Joker (2019)
Genre: Biting, Clown Arthur, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Fluffy Ending, Happy Ending, Light Angst, Long, Mentions of Death, Oral Sex, Shameless Smut, Vaginal Sex, Wash your eyes out after reading this lmao, briefly, literal sin, starts off wholesome and first its honestly like awww but then its like- uhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 05:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21030956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clownsxclowns/pseuds/clownsxclowns
Summary: “Arthur,” you whispered. He shivered at the sound of his name breathlessly leaving your lips, goosebumps forming across his skin. In response, he hummed deeply - an acknowledgement which originated from the back of his throat, the vibrations sinful against your heightened senses.“What’s gotten into you?"The confidence radiating off of him, although adding to the pool in your panties, had surprised you. You had to remind yourself that the previously timid Arthur and the man above you were the same person."I need you,” he husked.





	Expect the Unexpected

**Author's Note:**

> I was honestly SO tempted to just put 'Arthur shoots people and gets laid lol’ as a summary because I'm brain dead YEET

When Arthur found himself in the slowly decaying, yet otherwise well taken care of backyard of one of his requestors, performing under the gloomy Gotham sky, never, would he have expected it to change his life. Especially for the better. No, never had he thought, for the better. 

Arthur fiddled with his wig, the tips of his fingers scurrying under the strip of white which crossed his forehead, adjusting it. The fake, frizzy green locks were no longer lopsided, and he continued his routine in front of the kids before him. Laughter filled his ears. The only merriment he was accustomed to, and on that same train of thought, welcomed. It was nothing like the devious cackles of those who made fun of him. 

No, the laughs before him were honest and kind; they appreciated him. Most touching of all, and similarly foreign to him, was the fact that they actually asked for his jokes. 

He often wondered where things went wrong. When exactly did children, who were, for the most part, good-natured and compassionate, turn into horrible people? Transforming into the very same type that treated him like a punching bag? How and why, did they soak up the resentment of the world like a sponge? 

He supposed it was during adolescence. 

Teenagers were mean. 

That much was evident from the purple blotches on his back, markings that were still yet to dissipate, and tender to touch. From such a horrible experience, at least he was able to draw one positive out of it. The positive being that his clown costume was ridiculous enough to hide his battered and bruised body. Away from prying eyes. 

Then again, it wasn’t like anyone would have cared. 

Ultimately, he tried his best not to focus on the path his thoughts were leading him down. One of his biggest struggles was staying in the moment, and right now, with the crucial task of performing for a child’s birthday, he needed to be grounded. To emphasise this, Arthur dug his nails into his palms. Painful enough to snap him out of his digression, lax enough to keep the blood rushing and undisturbed under tested skin. 

As Arthur was finishing up his act, the magic wand which he seemingly pulled out of nowhere - at least from the kids’ perspectives, produced a collective awe. He waved it around, bouncing from toe to toe in his giant clown shoes, flicking it towards the birthday boy. Said child was a small, (h/c) haired boy with twinkling (e/c) eyes; his name, (C/n). 

(C/n) flinched when the wand was suddenly centimetres from his face. Though, he giggled when he saw the expression on the clown’s profile. It feigned shock, a gasp leaving his apple-red painted mouth. The clown, which the child only knew as ‘Carnival’ retracted the stick, inspecting it with squinted eyes. Alongside this, his spare hand flew up to his face, scratching his chin in thought, looking as though he had never encountered such a complex dilemma in his entire life. 

Then, without warning, the wand fell. No longer as sturdy as a stick, it wilted like a dying flower. The clown panicked, watching as it wiggled around in his desperate hands like a worm. While all seemed gloomy for the fate of the magic item in his hands, the children were giggling gleefully, intrigued at what would happen next. It was times like these that made Arthur’s job bearable; made life bearable.

All he wanted was to make people smile.

Arthur, pretending as though he was about to give up, engaged with the object in one last attempt, the flick of his wrist propelling the rod into the air. Much to the children’s astonishment, the wand had straightened itself, snapping back to its previously sturdy arrangement, with no sign of its prior drooping. 

They had long since formed a circle around the colourful man, looking up in wonder, clapping for him.

Arthur then slipped the item back into his pocket, performing a victory clasp. He threw his interlocked hands over his shoulders and shook them in response to the applause. When the children hushed their amazement, Arthur stuck his pointer finger in the air, wordlessly requesting their attention. His eyes then shut tight as he concentrated. Whipping out the rod from his pocket once more, he gave it one final spin. 

The children waited.

Nothing happened. 

Arthur opened his eyes. Confused. It was difficult for him to process what happened next because it all happened so quickly. One second he was puzzled, the next he was rendered stunned, with a face submerged in flowers. First, he had heard it, the sprout, as a prominent 'whoosh’ filled the air. Then he felt it; felt it tickling his nose. 

The flowers themselves were not real ones, but they were vivid; pinks, purples, greens and yellows sprouting from the wand’s end. Trying to play it off as though it was planned all along, Arthur mimed a sneeze, shaking his head. 

With a sheepish grin, the clown pulled back. His face was now safe from the sinister touch of the vibrant, ticklish extensions, and he handed the hued bouquet to the birthday boy, hunching over to reach him. It wasn’t hard to decipher what the boy was thinking. Unquestionably, a mixture of amusement and joy as laughter bubbled from his throat; his joviality a contagious song. 

And thus concluded Arthur’s act. 

“You’re so cool Carnival!” (C/n) hollered, waving the newly acquired flowers around. 

Arthur beamed down at the boy. 

“When I grow up, I want to be just like you!”

Arthur attempted to restrain the look of pain which crossed his animated features. 

No, kid. No, you don’t. 

Not wanting to ignore the poor child, he shot (C/n) a forced smile and ruffled his (h/c) hair.

“No. One day, you’re going to be even better." 

The child gawked up at him, hope dancing in his gem-like eyes, reflecting light. 

Thankfully, the moment didn’t last long as Arthur’s concentration was ripped from the depressing interaction. He had caught a glimpse of you, the parent, entering the backyard. You had tried to smoothly open the door, an attempt to reduce the obnoxious squeaking from the object, though your steady pace was futile. Despite the hesitant speed at which it was tugged, it was a protest that sustained. 

It was just another complaint to add to the shitty standard in Gotham; everything was half-assed. A primary disease which ate at the heart of the city, decaying and transforming it into the bleak, loveless and harsh mother it was. When you were one of Gotham’s children, affection was seldom. No matter how hard you tried to impress the mother, to display your achievements, to show strength, to get back up when you fell, the mother remained emotionless. Perhaps, she kicked you down some more.

_Gotham was her name, and tough love was her game._

Arthur watched you, in all his costumed glory, and drunk in the way your hair was softly carried by the wind. How your skin was kissed by the suns rays; how you moved away from the shading of the roof, which protruded meters from the brick walls of the house, spotlighting your features. He honestly felt like he was in a movie, a movie that was set up for disaster - knowing his luck. He couldn’t wait for the great mystery of how he was going to screw up, to unravel before his eyes. Could he even call it a mystery? He knew it was inevitable. A non-mysterious mystery? Expecting the unexpected except it was actually unexpected, though somehow, still expected?

Did that even make sense? He thought. 

_His brain hurt._

What was he doing again? 

"Mum!” (C/n) shouted, rushing up to you, simultaneously breaking Arthur’s buzzing thoughts as well as the one-sided staring contest he had engaged in. 

“Hey, there buckaroo!” you grabbed onto his small form and hoisted him up against your hip, “how’s my big boy?" 

Arthur watched the heart-warming scene from afar, sorrow tugging at his heart. He couldn’t help but flick through his memories, to try and find a time where his mother had been just as caring. Limited, but nonetheless there, he yearned for change; for his past to change. He’d been the man of the house for as long as he could remember. Even at a young age. With no father or even knowledge of him, he was forced to take care of his mother. And while he loved his mother, with all his heart, it was an arduous task to take care of yourself and your own needs when you were supporting someone else. 

"Good!” The child giggled in your arms, “Carnival is my favourite clown! Can we have him over every week?”

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“I don’t know buddy, I-”

“Please, please, please, please, please?” (C/n) whined, looking up at you with large hopeful (e/c) eyes. 

“Run along and play, and maybe I’ll talk to him,” you tapped his nose, “that sound good?" 

The boy frantically nodded his head, and as you set him down, he bolted off to join his friends. When he was on the other side of the yard, you turned towards the party clown. 

"Sorry about that,” you sheepishly grinned. 

Arthur didn’t really know what to say, the scene before him had truly made his heartthrob. It was a warmth that left him with some strange mix of belonging and attachment. Never before had he felt so appreciated. He wanted to say something, be honest, express his gratitude. And so, he said the first thing that came to mind:

“It’s fine." 

_He wanted to kick himself._

"It’s kind of strange how much he likes you. He’s never really open. He can be quite…”

“Shy,” Arthur finished for you. 

When you gave him a quizzical look, he was quick to explain, “I-I, uh, I was the same." 

Your lips upturned into a soft smile.

"Well, (C/n) must’ve picked up on it. Kid’s are good like that - sensitive to vibes. It means you’ve got a good heart." 

Arthur fidgeted, the words melting him. 

"Oh! Um, thank you for coming on such short notice…sorry, I never caught your name?" 

"A-Arthur." 

"Glad to know your name’s not actually Carnival.”

His eyes sparkled at your joke, his amusement filling the yard.

“You’re probably exhausted, come, I’ll make some tea. Or coffee? Is there something you prefer?" 

He was about to protest, not wanting to bother you, to go back home to his crummy apartment and lose himself in his journal for the rest of the day, but something compelled him to agree to the offer. He wasn’t sure what.

"Coffee is okay, thank you,” his smile hadn’t left. 

When you turned to lead, his eyes flew to your hands, searching for a ring. He also wasn’t sure why he let himself.

There was none, however; no jewellery at all. 

_Huh._

He quickly caught up and shuffled inside after you. 

“This really means a lot,” you started, closing the screen door before turning to face him, “to me and, obviously to my son…" 

A sombre look replaced your smile.

”…I haven’t seen him this happy since we moved,“ you looked back at (c/n), watching him jump up and down with his friends, their voices filtering through the mesh. 

"You’re not from Gotham?”

You shook your head, rounding him to shift further into the kitchen, behind the counter. His eyes followed your zipping from, moving when you were out of view. 

“Sugar?" 

Arthur found his hands fidgeting with his wig again, refusing eye contact. A soft 'sure’ passed his lips, followed by a 'two, thank you’ as the porcelain clink of mugs being placed, echoed. The soft scatter of sugar followed soon after.

"Please make yourself comfortable, Arthur. You can sit down if you’d like." 

The scraping of the chair from behind told you that he listened. 

After a few moments of silence, he spoke up. You could tell he was starting to open up, less nervous than when you had first spoken to him. It was endearing. 

"With all due respect miss-

”(Y/n),“ you interrupted, turning to grin at the man. You noticed he had taken his wig off, his red foam nose too, displaying his almost raven coloured locks and chiselled features. 

”(Y/n), he repeated. The way your name rolled off his tongue had your stomach fluttering, a sensation that caught you off guard. 

“Why did you move to Gotham? It’s not exactly the…best place to be." 

"Life works in funny ways,” you started, “one minute you’re on top of the world, the next the floor crumbles beneath you, and suddenly you’re in a hole." 

Boy, did Arthur _understand._ Although he knew you weren’t able to see him, with your back turned towards him, he nodded his head frantically. How were you able to so eloquently sum up his life? His whole existence? 

"Sorry, I’m oversharing,” you awkwardly laughed. 

“No! I know what you mean…" 

With one flick of the kettle’s trigger, you returned to Arthur. 

"I take it you’re a native Gothamite?" 

He nodded. 

"I live with my moth- … my mother,” his voice lost confidence towards the end as if he was ashamed of such a fact. 

This was only supported when he scrambled to get out his next words, “she needs help sometimes, and I’m the only one who’s around to take care of her." 

"I’m all she has…" 

You gave him a reassuring smile, gently touching his interlocked hands which were resting on the table. He flinched at the contact. 

"You don’t need to justify yourself, Arthur. I’m sure your mother’s proud to have raised such a compassionate man.”

You had caught him off guard - that was for sure. Flicking through the entirety of your interactions wasn’t needed to come to the glaringly obvious conclusion that he wasn’t used to being complimented. That he wasn’t used to any form of nicety, and that fact well and truly broke your heart.

_Who had hurt him?_

Arthur had yet to find evidence of repulsion - yet to find anything that indicated you were weirded out by him; like the guys at work. He relaxed into the hold a second later, when he realised it wasn’t anything threatening. Or, part of some malicious, ulterior motive.

“As strange as this might sound, you’re really easy to talk to, Arthur. You’re a good listener." 

"Really?” He couldn’t hold back the crooked, love-struck grin that infiltrated his features, and he was about to compliment you too when the shrieking of the kettle broke up the moment, causing you to pull away from him.

He felt cold; the warming action starkly contrasted with the wind which permeated through the mesh door.

In seconds, you had returned with your steaming beverages, warning of the burning hazards, though your touch hadn’t returned. 

Fast-forwarding through the small talk and the stories which decorated your conversation, Arthur eventually finished his coffee, and never before had he been so smitten. Out of all the jobs he’d gotten this week, which weren’t many, this had been the most enjoyable. Although his work here had finished a while ago, he had tried to stretch out the minutes, just to hold onto the glimmer of happiness he knew would dissipate as soon as he left. He could feel time laughing at him, sticking its ghastly tongue out while telepathically hammering the fact home. He couldn’t drag it out any longer. 

And so, when it was time for him to leave, heading towards the door, he paused and swallowed his pride, doing what he thought was best. 

“Did you want to get dinner sometime?” He said, turning back around as he placed an awkward arm against the arch of the hallway, leaning on it. He saw it in movies. The cool, nonchalant characters always got the girl, so it must work. 

Right? 

No, that was stupid, he thought. 

He forced the limb down, it bumping against his side. 

His fingernails dug into his palms again, for the second time that day, pressing against the very same spots as he waited for a response. He was expecting rejection. No way would she say yes, what was he thinking? At least he could say he tried; at least he’d had one positive interaction in the last few months. 

_Sorry kiddo, guess Carnival’s not coming back._

His negative thoughts were disrupted by the sound of your reply. A reply in which made him delighted for taking a chance. 

Because your next words were nothing but a sweet package of glazed agreement.

“I’d love to." 

Uttering something about a day and a time, to which you agreed, he quickly found his way out of the house. 

When he slipped outside into the fresh air, he shut the front door. Away from everyone’s gaze - at least those he cared about, namely you. He felt compelled to move. One of his legs with a mind of its own crossed over the other, twirling him around against your patterned brick pathway; a path in which led to the small gated exit. His arms then followed a similar pattern, striking the air, drumming into it. With one slide, the soles of his shoes skated against concrete, pushing him towards the iron gate. He felt good as he opened it. He felt confident. Laughter bubbled from his lips, failing to halt as he travelled further and further away from your house. 

He smiled all the way home.

And, it was only until he reached said home, emptying out his pockets while changing into more comfortable clothes, that his fingers brushed up against a flat, smooth surface; thin and malleable. He wrapped his digits over the peculiar material and brought it to eye-level, palm exposed. 

It was a small, folded piece of paper. White, though crumbled from being cramped up in his pocket. 

He didn’t remember placing it in there…

Arthur’s eyes grew wide when he unravelled the mysterious sheet, a line of numbers taking up a good portion of its space. Below it was a small 'call me - (Y/n)’ written out neatly, a drastic variation to his own child-like scribbles. He reclined his head against a nearby wall, letting his childish exuberance take over. 

_Turns out you were quite the magician yourself._

———

Arthur sat alone, leg jittering as his eyes glanced back and forth from the clock on the pale wall opposite him, above the entrance. With each darting glance, barely a minute between them, he became increasingly aware of the chatter around him. While there weren’t many people in the area with him as the tables were more empty than they were filled, he was highly conscious of the fact that he was the only one there without company. 

For the first time, he looked out the window he rested against. The chilled frame soothed his hot face as he watched people stroll by, hoping to catch you. His attempts were, sadly, in vain. 

You were late. 

When he returned his gaze to look back at the clock again, he tried his hardest not to make eye contact with any of the staff. He knew that if he did, they’d flock to him like a swarm of bees. Instead, he kept his head low, pretending to look at the menu.

After another five minutes passed before the bell hanging off the door finally rang. His gaze immediately shot to the noise, locking with yours. Air left his mouth, both in relief and at the red dress you were wearing, coincidentally matching his own red suit. It hugged your figure, complimenting every curve, and he tried his hardest to keep his eyes from wandering. 

_You **hadn’t** stood him up._

As your beaming face lit up the world around him, your clacking heels took you to the booth opposite him, observing the room with a smile as you did so. 

"I’m so sorry I’m late!” You exclaimed, placing your purse down, sandwiched by you and the wall.

“Kids,” you rolled your eyes.

“You came,” were his first words, his eyes riddled with a strange confusion, yet a light - hope. He believed he had articulated his surprise internally, that was, until you gave him a look.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I?" 

"I-I don’t know.” He sputtered out. 

He did. 

As you both got settled in, Arthur for the first time that night willingly made eye contact with one of the servers. Your orders were speedily jotted down and taken to the chef within minutes. 

Conversation flowed, and his jokes actually got a reaction out of you, much to his surprise. The tension, or rather the anxious energy that seemed to bounce off the two of you melted, fading away light the lights of the cars that sped by the open window. In its absence, a playful aura took told. Small touches here and there, and your leg which rubbed against his, even if it was accidental, left his head spinning. This, he thought, was bliss. 

“So,” you started, a finger twirling around a strand of (h/c) hair, “I’ve decided." 

Arthurs brows furrowed, allowing you to continue. 

"I have to tell you something,” you said, rubbing your hands against your dress; a nervous tick.

A finger curled into his collar, tugging at it to cool his heating body temperature. Arthur’s anxiety which was already a mess, exacerbated from hearing one of the most infamously terrifying phrases. 

“I feel like it’ll be good for me to open up - I haven’t told anyone since I’ve left. No one really knew in the first place, except a few friends." 

Arthur didn’t know what to say. 

It sounded serious. Your words held a unique gravity to them. And while he felt the air around them shift, from light-hearted and playful, to darker, more solemn, he could tell you had been repressing what you were about to tell him for a good while. He knew the look. 

His hand reached over the table to meet yours. They were timid, brushing against yours experimentally until he knew you were comfortable with his affection.

"How the tables have turned,” you joked, allowing his hand to slip into yours. 

“I was in a nasty relationship,” you started off wavering, a sigh passing into the air, “I only dared to leave a few months ago." 

Arthur’s heart virtually broke as you revealed this to him. He watched as you swallowed the lump in your throat, noting how your eyes started to flutter from the stinging of tears. 

"It endangered me and my son. It took a lot of strength to leave, but I had to for (C/n). He’s my world, and I care about him more than myself." 

Tears by now had fallen, running down your cheeks. Arthur intently listened to your confession. 

"Moving to Gotham was the only way we could start over, and if I could have given him a better life, I would have, but it was the best I could do. I just wanted to see him happy again." 

You let out another sigh, trying to blink away a few of the stray tears, though Arthur beat you to it, his hands moving to your face, wiping them with his thumbs. He felt how you leant into his touch, your eyes falling shut with a sniffle. As grim as the situation was, he was happy you were comfortable enough to tell him such a heartbreaking story.

"Sorry,” you mumbled, forcing a laugh out to mask your vulnerability. Arthur saw right through it.

He gave you a look, one that virtually said 'are you serious?’ before he spoke, exasperated, “what for?" 

"I don’t know…for crying? For dropping this on you, for-" 

"Hey,” Arthur’s thick, dark eyebrows furrowed, his hands still cupping your face, “if I even had half the strength of you, I’d-”

“I’d-”

Arthur paused, his voice coming out as chokes.

_Oh no._

He felt an overly-familiar twitch in his throat, a reflex in which he tried to stifle by clamping his mouth shut, contorting his face in pain to keep it at bay. 

He never could. 

And then, at the worst possible moment, the worst he could possibly think of, he hunched over and wheezed, cackling over the table. Your eyes, riddled with confusion from the lost contact, was promptly replaced with hurt at his sudden laughter. 

He quickly noticed this, shaking his head. 

Everyone else in the establishment, with what few were there, reared their heads to the ruckus, watching Arthur spiral. 

“I-I’m so-” he started, desperate to contain himself. 

It only made things worse. 

“S-sorry." 

He fiddled with his pockets, trying to produce the laminated card, he practically depended on. His fingers brushed the plastic, and he frantically pulled it out, sliding it to the other side of the table.

_Please understand._

_Please, please, please._

You had been the only person he’d connected with in months, perhaps longer. And now, he was about to ruin it with his stupid, stupid, stupid condition. 

Guess the mystery had unravelled, he thought bitterly. 

He tried to watch your expression for any indication of disgust or contempt. It was difficult, however, as he continued his fit, a hand hitting the table’s surface. Another reflex. The pain was starting to set in, his lungs screaming, and his chest aching. 

_Please just let it end._

"Is there anything I can do to help?”

Your voice surprised him, the kind tone and the understanding in your eyes was something he had to get used to. Something he wanted to get used to. How were you so kind? So accepting?

He shook his head slowly, trying to get a few words out.

“I have-”

“Have to-”

He tried to breathe, nearly choking.

“W-Wait.”

“It’s okay,” you comforted, hurt no longer manipulating your features. 

“Take your time.”

———

In Arthur’s eyes, the date had gone really well, or at the very least as well as it could have gone considering his outburst. He was happy, the feeling of warmth and nervousness he felt around you was something he hadn’t really experienced with anyone, or really had the chance to. He kind of liked it.

He felt like he could be himself. You’d laugh at his jokes, his puns, regardless of how morbid they got; the most you’d do is playfully slap his shoulder and bite back a grin - guilty for laughing. He never understood the frivolous sayings about love, how things could sound so far fetched and dramatic, but now, he understood. 

He didn’t know how it was possible, how someone as beautiful as you, could be interested in someone like him. 

After eating, you both walked under the darkness of the sky, the pinpricks which twinkled above, smiling down. Content was the air that surrounded your bodies, a loving blanket. With nothing more than a few minutes walk back to yours from the restaurant, you relished in his company. 

It wasn’t long before you both arrived back though, almost too soon, with the giddiness of your date still swirling around in both your heads. Arthur, at some point, had wrapped his red suit jacket around your goosebumped form, an action at which you had initially declined, but gave in when he insisted. You thought it felt good against your warming skin, the smell of his cologne intoxicating. As you entered the hallway, leading him back to the living room, you were happy to see the babysitter you had hired playing a board game with your beaming son. She was the teenage daughter of a friend you met at work, and you, happy to help out a struggling youth, decided it was the perfect opportunity to go out with Arthur. After paying her, and seeing her off, you excused yourself for a moment and vanished into one of the other rooms. 

Arthur had sat down on the table like last time. The wood cooled his clothed forearms as he watched the child from across the room walk his way over, and push himself into the chair opposite him. Once (c/n), was comfortable, Arthur shot him a smile - one that wasn’t returned. 

(C/n)’s bright eyes were suddenly reduced to slits, his arms crossed and observing the dressed-up man. It made Arthur uncomfortable, to say the least. What had caused the dramatic shift in attitude? 

Nothing was said, for at least a good two minutes, until finally, the small child in his blue space pyjamas saw it necessary.

“You know, my mommy really likes you." 

_Uh oh._

Arthur made a face back to the boy. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what face he made, though it didn’t matter because the child picked up on his general disbelief anyway.

"It’s true!” His arms shot out into the air, “I do too!" 

There was no way a child could know such things; plus, nothing was ever certain. It was with this that he pushed down the hope that had sprung up, like a freshly bloomed flower in spring - its stem resistant and youthful, not yet pressed by the wilting life would inevitably bring. 

"So you better not be mean to her!” (C/n) exclaimed.

The double meaning behind what the child said made him internally cringe. Arthur now knew the context of your troubled pasts and whilst what (c/n) had said was innocent, had saddened him. Not just over the fact you had been through hell in the first place, but because, for a moment there, Arthur saw himself in the child; a reflection of what he was still like. Always having to take care of his mother - look out for her. Support her any way he could. 

Arthur’s eyes softened in understanding, a great respect for the child forming. (C/n) sincerely looked up to you - loved you, and he was willing to resist anything that endangered that. 

Arthur leaned forward, a forearm extending. His elbow rested against the table’s surface and all his fingers, except for one - his pinky - curled into his palm. 

“I promise,” he said, eyes firm, a certainty the child was happy with.

(C/n) reached his small body over, his knees digging into the pads of cushioning on the chair as his significantly tinier finger wrapped around Arthur’s skinny one. A smile was shared between the two of them. 

When Arthur went to pull away, he was stopped by (C/n)’s whine.

“No! You have to lock it!”

“Lock?” Arthur questioned. 

(C/n)’s tongue stuck out in concentration as he reached his small thumb over to Arthur’s, tapping it. After much trial and error, the older man finally got the hint and connected the tip of his thumb with the boy.

“There!” (C/n) exclaimed.

Unbeknownst to the two seated at the table, you had snuck back into the room, watching the heartwarming scene unfold. The gentle noise of your knocking signified your return, and Arthur, with surprise, jumped in his chair, quickly standing. You bit into your lip, trying not to laugh. 

He made his way over to you when you extended your arm, his red suit jacket floating in the air as your fingers gripped it from the top. In one quick movement, it was hugging his body again.

“Thanks,” Arthur smiled.

As much as he wanted to stay, to talk to you all night, his eyes caught the time which had apparently flown by, like a flock of birds migrating for the winter. He had undoubtedly overstayed his welcome, and his mother was probably worried sick. 

His eyes grew wide.

“I-I have to go!" 

His sudden shift in mood had you worried. 

"Arthur? Are you okay?" 

"I’m really late. I’m sorry." 

"Oh - okay well, let me walk you to the door?”

It was barely a few meters away, and you internally scolded yourself. How obvious could you get?

He quickly nodded.

Your form quickly moved past him as you hear Arthur’s gentle voice in the background say goodbye to (C/n). When your fingers gripped onto the doorknob, pushing it, Arthur squeezed past with a small 'thank you’. You felt the nips of the wind against your exposed arms, causing you to shiver. The distant noises of Gotham - the blaring sirens which were muffled, and the faraway clamour of car horns, was something you had gotten used to; it was a city that never slept. 

Arthur stood awkwardly in front of you, lost. It was then when you realised you had to make the first move. 

“Thanks for tonight,” you said, hands wrapping around him in a gentle embrace, chin resting on the pad of his shoulder. The smell of his cologne hit your nostrils instantly. It was oceanic, traces of bergamot and melon, with a hint of frangipani; so perfectly him. It was a fragrance that you associated with safety, the small feeling of comfort burrowing in your stomach. 

He froze from your actions, evidently stunned. His arms then snaked their way around your waist, pulling you closer to him. 

“I had a great time,” you whispered, eyes closing against him. 

The husky agreement which you felt vibrate in his chest induced a sinful shiver. As much as you wanted to stay wrapped in his arms for longer, hell for the rest of the night, you knew he needed to be somewhere. Tearing yourself away, the hands remaining at your hips stopped you, squeezing into your sides. This prompted you to look up at the man, into his hardened eyes. They looked to be concentrating, portraying an internal war. His Adam’s apple bobbed. You didn’t get a chance to ask if he was okay because he moved before you could, his lips quickly pressing themselves against the softness of your heated cheek before scurrying off.

You smiled, fingers grazing the area. 

Arthur was a unique man. Strange, but endearingly so. 

So soft and gentle; kind. 

He would never hurt a fly. 

———

.

.

.

.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Arthur repeated the mantra in his head. 

He’d fucked up - fucked up big time.

He’d shot three men - killed them in cold blood. 

His ears were still ringing from the gunshots, and he remembered the way his hands shook as he held the trigger. How his tremors diminished with every squeeze until finally, a hardened look replaced his fear. His whole demeanour had altered within those critical seconds.

As he found himself back in the present, his makeup smudged and appearance dishevelled, he emerged out of the public bathroom, panting. 

He felt different. 

The eyes which had stared back at him in that mirror didn’t feel like his own. They didn’t harbour the terror they once swam in, nor the naivety. His body, which had moved with grace and finesse, had danced on the dirty tiles instead. His movements came from the soul; a conglomeration of motions he was unaware he was even capable of. 

Yes - he **was** different. 

So, when he wiped off his makeup, and kicked his leg out, against the resistance of the bathroom door, he didn’t go back to his apartment. He didn’t want to see the rats in the lobby, scurrying and squeaking, only a matter of time before they found their way into his apartment. He didn’t want to stare at the wall for hours, envisioning what could have been, and the what if’s. He didn’t want to sit down with his journal and think about how depressing his life was - just to get his therapist off his ass.

No, he didn't _want_ to. 

So he didn’t.

Preferably, he found himself going in the other direction. To the place where he felt most welcomed. Loved. 

Although the date had been days prior, he felt the need to see you. 

He didn’t know how long it took him to get there, all he knew was the thumping of his heart, it’s frantic beat echoing in his ears when he rapped on the door. The sound hollow. 

Your head peaked out, groggy from sleep as you opened the door, its range widening when you saw him. It was late, perhaps late enough to be considered the early hours of the morning, but you didn’t question it. Rather, his name passed your lips with concern. 

Arthur didn’t hear you call his name. Though he saw your lips move, plump and inviting. No sound reached his dazed state. His hands found your face alternatively, thin digits sliding below your mastoid, save for his ring finger and pinky. Wasting no time in seizing your lips, his mind worked overtime to memorise every little detail - of the moment he had been waiting for; the grand finale. 

Every scent - like the perfume that seeped into your skin, faint and applied hours prior. It was a scent he often detected, sometimes rubbing off on his clothes, but an odour he never got sick of; heavenly. 

Every feeling - like the way your hands wrapped around his form, gripping him tightly to steady yourself from your stumbling - from his pushes into the house. Or, like the feeling of his stomach, how it fluttered when you kissed him back, his heated blood pumping through him. 

Every sound - like the soft 'click’ of the door behind him, which he closed with the sole of his shoe. 

Every taste - like the raspberry chapstick which coated your lips, mixing in with the contrasting flavour of his carmine lipstick. Although most of it was wiped off, there were distinct traces. Smudges. 

Every sight - the way your playful grin took up most of it when you pulled away, teeth dragging your bottom lip, leading him to your bedroom. 

When inside, Arthur dipped you down onto the bed, his slim frame hovering over yours with darkened eyes. The dim glow of your lamp residing on the bedside table allowed you to identify the hunger in his look. A lusting fire which burned right before you, behind those glassy, blue eyes. The warmth of his lips met your mouth once more, but only for a second because he shifted his attention to the base of your neck. The moments in between had you complaining from the loss of contact, a noise which he chuckled at. 

He wanted - needed - to explore every curve of your body; every crevice. Map it in his brain. 

“Arthur,” you whispered. He shivered at the sound of his name breathlessly leaving your lips, goosebumps forming across his skin. In response, he hummed deeply - an acknowledgement which originated from the back of his throat, the vibrations sinful against your heightened senses.

“What’s gotten into you?" 

The confidence radiating off of him, although adding to the pool in your panties, had surprised you. You had to remind yourself that the previously timid Arthur and the man above you were the same person.

"I need you,” he husked. 

Amazed by his forwardness, though equally as desperate, your voice came out shaky, “then take me." 

Three words. Those lovely three words were all it took for him to lose himself; his control. The tightness of his pants was becoming too much to bear. It was his own personal prison, and the anguished motivation to escape was only increasing by the passing moments. Judging by the way you were grinding against him, pressing against his crotch unfairly, he knew you were just as riled up.

His kisses seared into your skin, rendering you a whimpering mess. Your back arched against the mattress, an action driven entirely by instinct as his hands slipped under your shirt. In an attempt to make things easier, your hands hooked under the shirt as well, bunching it up. When he sensed the movement, he assisted you with the material. In your whirlwind of passion, the article of clothing had been removed, thrown away as it was left sprawled across the floor, uncaringly. His breath hitched in his throat when he realised there was nothing underneath it, except for your underwear.

"You’re beautiful,” he said, pupils full-blown.

Your eyes then smiled up at his in the delicate moment, the tender upturn of your brows leading to the capture of his lips. Without so much as moving away, his slender fingers fiddled with his dress shirt, he too, removing himself from its constraints. 

He suddenly pulled away as his frustration reached its peak. His need for you had become overpowering, and he worked his way down towards the only piece of clothing you had left. The light, tickling touch of the pads of his fingers slid down your ribcage, tracing down your hips until they reached the waistband. His thumbs dipped under the elastic, and with the cooperation of your wiggling, it was promptly discarded. His caress was ever so gentle, his handling virtually leaving you quaking beneath him. 

Arthur wasted no time in pleasuring you, this was proven to you quickly when one of his digits smoothly slid into your cunt. The sound of your wetness was vulgar, although all the more alluring. 

He felt drunk; hazy. In some sense, it was surreal that this was occurring, that you were actually interested in him in the first place. Yet, there was another part of him that was screaming at himself to focus, to halt his berating comments and take pleasure in the way you were crumbling before him. He tried to do the latter. 

“Fuck- oh my god!” You immediately cried out, hands darting to cover your mouth as he slowly started pumping his finger. His devilish movements had your other hand fisting the sheets. 

Your breathing swiftly became ragged under the knuckle you bit down on, and he hastily added another finger, loving your reaction. He felt his chest swell with pride as he glanced up at your dishevelled manner. Encouraged by the enchanting sight, he picked up his pace. It was relentless and brutal, the thrusts forcing obscene mewls from you, some no longer containable. Raising your hips to meet his rhythm, to relieve the overwhelming knot forming, you knew you weren’t going to last long. Arthur knew this too, your squirming made this clear, and he instantly added his lips to the equation, stimulating your clit. 

You were done for. 

As your walls clenched around his fingers, your hands rushed to grip his hair. They weaved through his untidy strands, pushing his head down while the wild flicks of his tongue assisted you with your earth-shattering orgasm. Ecstasy rushed over your trembling form, and as your thighs tensed, the tip of your head grazed the headboard; you swore you could see stars. Arthur’s cock twitched in his pants at the sight of you unfolding before him, impossibly hard. 

“Holy fuck!” You moaned.

He kindly slowed his rhythm when he knew you finished, yet his tongue licked a long stripe against your slit, moving to lap up your juices. The sensation, as well as the hums that lasciviously left his mouth, vibrated against your already sensitive core, setting you down the path for a second climax. 

Perhaps he had done it on purpose, but when you felt the pressure in your abdomen, ready to burst again, he pulled away. 

“No!” you cried, “Arthur, please! I’m gonna cum, please let me cum!” You sobbed quite shamelessly. In all honesty, your words surprised yourself, and apparently Arthur too, because laid sat there for a moment, eyebrows raised as a delicious smirk settled over his lips. He took his merry time, with no sign of returning to you, savouring your pleading. 

“Beg,” he purred, sitting up as his tongue lolling out to lick and suck on the fingers that had fucked you into oblivion. His eyes never shifted from yours, and you watched with absolute astonishment, upon desire, at the action. Your reaction only egged him on. 

What exactly happened to him in the last 72 hours? 

You were genuinely bewildered at the whole situation. The last thing you would have expected was to have Arthur rock up in the middle of the night and turn into a sex god. Though, you certainly weren’t complaining. 

While one of his hands was busy, in his mouth, his other trailed up your thigh. Eventually, it reached your bundle of nerves, tracing small circles with his thumb, agonisingly slowly. 

“You’re so good to me, fuck,” you whined, stirring against his touch. He pulled away again when you bucked into his hand.

“Please-”

“Please, what?”

“I need you inside me, Arthur, fuck please-”

He couldn’t take much more of your begging, his own self-control had wholly vanished by then, and he quickly shifted out of his pants, freeing himself. When his cock fell into his fist, he gave two steady pumps before lining himself up with you. You held your breath in anticipation despite your wild heart, making you feel dizzy. The relief you had been longing for - no aching for - had finally arrived when he pushed himself into you. 

“Oh god- you feel so good,” you gasped. The moan which fell from Arthur’s lips had your name mixed in, a deliciously carnal sound. As he started moving, a slow rhythm from his hips developing, he shut his eyes. With his concentration on chasing his finish, salty beads of sweat trailed down his forehead. 

“Arthur,” your gentle voice had called, “w-wait." 

Upon hearing your words, he immediately stopped, eyes flying open with concern.

"Let me take care of you.”

He was confused as to what you meant until you maneuvered yourself on top, kissing him softly. 

You could see the stutter in his confidence at your words, though his nod signified his consent. With a small smile, you made sure he was comfortable before your entrance started teasing his cock. You felt him tense up, and when you made the movement again, he thrust into you, an involuntary action which made you both cry out. His stroke hit you perfectly the first time, harsh yet euphoric. If you woke up the next day and found your body aching, you wouldn’t be shocked.

His arms reached over to embrace your form as you buried your face in the crevice of his neck, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh. Then, fully adjusted to his length, you started to move up and down on his cock, the feeling of him stretching your walls overwhelming. 

“You’re doing so well,” you gulped, your panting warming the side of his throat.

“I want to see you,” he managed to murmur out, and his request was promptly granted when you pulled away from his neck. 

His hands slid down to grip your hips when you shifted, guiding them as you bounced. No longer did he need to fantasise about being with you, image you writhing in pleasure as he touched himself. No longer did he need to envision the way you felt around his cock, the way you moaned; it was now his reality. Hell, even Arthur’s wicked fantasies couldn’t have prepared him for this. Nor the words that left your mouth next, sending him spiralling. 

“Let go, Arthur. Cum for me." 

He did.

And hard. 

His orgasm rocked him to the core, and you milked him for all he had, his hot spurts of cum coating your walls. Both your paces slowed, becoming sloppy as you came crashing down seconds later. 

Deathly tired, you collapsed on top of his chest, exhausted. The only sound that could be heard were your frantic breaths, and you could’ve sworn your heart too, considering how hard it was beating. As you both took a minute to calm, neither of you move from each other, his cock still buried within you. 

Only when you felt him soften did you slowly depart, rolling beside him. Arthur’s grew heavy when you did, though they tried to resist the weight of his lethargy. He managed to twist his frame over to you, giving you one last kiss, the taste of yourself prominent in the heartfelt and passionate kiss, before he finally gave in. 

Sleep gripped your forms. 

———

Arthur stirred at the alien sensation of warmth next to him. Your naked body was pressed against his, head leaning on his chest as his arms protectively enveloped your frame. It took a few moments for this to register, and a lot more minutes for him to realise this was real; that this wasn’t a dream - a product of his imagination.

He hadn’t woken up in his own bed with his sheets dirtied from, well, his…dreams. 

Everything had actually happened yesterday. 

Your beautiful form was really there in his grasp, face relaxed with soft exhales leaving your nose. He could feel the breath against his skin, a perception his body reacted to on its own.

Don’t start, he thought, scolding himself. 

Perhaps it was his staring that had woken you next, or the soft, dulled yellow tone of the suns rays projecting past the white curtains. He wasn’t sure. But, when your (e/c) eyes bore into his, fluttering open with a grin he knew he’d never get used to, he realised it didn’t matter. Its appearance always managed to sucker punch him in his gut, make his heart stop. And if that was the way he was going to die, fuck, he really couldn’t complain. He’d choose it if he could. Your radiance was sincerely otherworldly to him, angelic - personally constructed and moulded by the angels themselves. 

"Goodmorning,” you yawned, arching your back into a stretch. Soft groans left your lips and pops from your joints filled the air. Arthur’s finger trailed your spine, forcing you to shiver.

“Morning,” he replied lazily, a drowsy smile gracing his lips.

“I don’t wanna get upppp” you whined, voice still affected by sleep as you nuzzled into him. 

“We don’t have to,” Arthur shot you a look, one you were quickly starting to identify as his sex expression. Its appearance forced you to roll your eyes playfully, something he laughed at. 

“Maybe later, loverboy.”

After one soft morning kiss, you both decided it was best to do the complete opposite of what you wanted and get up. 

As you both tossed on the discarded clothes from your nightly activities, Arthur beat you to the kitchen, refusing to let you sort your breakfast out. Your giggles decorated the hallway as you admitted defeat, knowing he wasn’t going to give in. In no time, Arthur had somehow transformed into a chef, something he casually brushed off, stating he learned for his mother. 

Not long after, a long metallic groan - of hinges - sounded. Then, frantic footsteps littered the hallway, a short form entering the kitchen soon after, eyes observing the scene before them.

“Are those pancakes?” The boy asked, looking between you and Arthur. 

Arthur winked at (C/n). It was enough confirmation for the kid and his feet lept off the ground repeatedly. His cute red pyjamas had green patterns of t-rex’s scattered across the fabric, a fact he exhibited to Arthur every few minutes. 

So, this was what having a family felt like, Arthur thought, smiling. 

When Arthur eventually finished cooking and experimenting with pancake shapes (he had managed to morph yours into the outline of a heart and (C/n)’s into Pacman), he was the last to join the table. 

Excited to take a chuck out of his consumable masterpiece, Arthur sipped on his water. But, before he could move on, the boy’s words across from him, stopped him, forcing the liquid back into its glass. 

Arthur damn near choked. Deep coughs emerged from his chest, and while he was repulsed by the sight of his saliva swirling with the chilled drink, it was the least of his worries with the child’s words buzzing around his head. 

“Does this mean you’re my dad now?!”


End file.
